


One Hundred Ways to Say 'I Love You'

by amb-roses (buckshot_lariat)



Series: One Hundred Ways to Say 'I Love You' [1]
Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: 100 Drabble Challenge, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Domestic, Based on a Tumblr Post, Character Study, Crushes, Dialogue Heavy, Domestic Fluff, Dramatic Fools In Love Can't Stop being Dramatic, Drunken Flirting, Drunken Shenanigans, Early Mornings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Food Issues, Gen, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, Injury Recovery, Introspection, Kinda?, Late Night Conversations, Light Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mornings, Multi, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Second Person, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, Tenderness, Vacation, alcohol consumption. sorta, ask to tag I guess, but mild, how does one....... tag, karl and luke are good friends i swear, lets see how far i actually get with this, lovestruck idiots are in love, or: in which the shield adopts finn, soft and gay? maybe so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 02:13:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16823092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckshot_lariat/pseuds/amb-roses
Summary: Supposedly, there's a million ways to say it, whether it's platonic, romantic, or somewhere in between. Here are one hundred, between the men and women of a thousand worlds.





	1. "Pull over. Let me drive for awhile."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1\. "Pull over. Let me drive for awhile."
> 
> Roman is the powerhouse, Dean is the brawler, and Seth?  
> Well, Seth's just the Architect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im tired and figured i needed to post this eventually or i'd never get around to. actually doing it  
> so anyway heres some soft guys in a car i wrote at 3 am and then never really edited

The road seems longer than usual that night, dark and spotted with the highway lights and little else as they make their way to their lodgings. An issue in booking had them driving farther than usual after their show, deep into the dark along the longest stretch of interstate Seth's ever seen, the occasional patch of cars interrupting the heavy of the dark morning hours.

Seth didn’t want to admit he was dozing. 

He was the driver, he always drove. He drove with Roman clutching his ribs in the back, with Dean holding ice to his neck or back, with both of them patched precariously together. Seth couldn’t heal them, could only attempt to absorb the blows in the moment, but sometimes he couldn’t make it. Sometimes he couldn’t shield them from harm, so he made himself useful. He drove them to their hotel, navigated them across highway lanes, carried their bags in, led them to the safety of their room. 

He stayed up facing the door, let Dean take his place in the corner of the room or the bathtub when post-match adrenaline sparked his paranoia. He fussed over Roman, helped him wash up when he could barely stand, tucked him in and made sure he was comfortable and warm, prepared him for the day-after, deep seated aches and pains that came with the business they so loved and adored.

Seth couldn’t stop his brothers from being hurt, but he could plan better pre-match, plan and plan, contingency after contingency, every possible outcome, prepare for the post-match injuries and fatigue.

So if it had him staying up a little later each night, a little slower in the morning drag, that was fine. If it had him a little more sore, a little more prominent of a headache, then it was fine, because his brothers would be safer, healthier, happier.

“You never make room for yourself in the plans, dumbass,” is the common complaint. He promises he’ll be better next time and ducks the needle-point stare that follows him. Because he’s gotta be better. Better for them.

Wingman Dean made a point to stay up with him in the passenger seat, humming with Seth’s music despite his earlier complaints as Roman snored quietly behind them, laying sprawled across the backseat. Seth hadn’t fondly watched Dean eye their powerhouse over the hour after leaving, as his words slurred more and more to the point they were replaced with nasal snorts. He hadn’t ducked his head to hide his smile as Dean had loosened his seat belt to reach back and recline the seat, unzipping the suitcase occupying the side spot and pulling a throw blanket to cover him.

It’s forty minutes in when the pain in his back intensifies, a hard tumble from the night's match stiffening his spine, a low groan catching in his throat.

“Hey, y’need to tag out?” Dean asks from his seat and he spares a glance, the road blurring around the edges. He adjusts their trajectory in the lane, straightening them out slightly and giving a stretch that makes his back  _ crack! _ loud in the car.

“Nah, I’m good.”

Seth  _ really  _ didn’t want to admit he was dozing, but he’s forced to when they hit a patch of pavement markers, nearly veering into the next lane. They both jump into sharp awareness from the lull of the early morning, Dean nearly asleep and Seth on his way. Their first concern is Roman, who is in a dead-sleep and only murmurs and shifts under his blanket. Seth can’t dodge Dean’s sharp, narrowed glare as he lines up properly and eases on the gas where they'd begun to slow.

“Rollins. Tag out.”

“I’m fine.” His teeth grit tightly against his pounding headache, shifting under the pressure mounting in the column of his spine.

_ “Rollins.” _ Then softer, gentler, “Seth.  **Pull over. Let me drive for awhile.** You’re exhausted.”

“I gotta get you guys home,” he insists, battle already lost.

“Who’s gonna get  _ you _ home? You’ve been workin’ hard recently.” Seth gave him a glance out of the corner of his eye. “Really. You do everythin’ for us. Give me a chance to pay it back, yeah?”

Seth heaves a sigh but hits the turn signal anyway. “It’s not a debt, Ambrose.”

“Nah,” he can feel Dean’s grin, wide and toothy and chock full of a genuine, soft fondness that only peers from behind his walls when they’re really alone. “It’s just what we do for each other, little brotha’.”

The taller man gives him an affectionate ruffle as he moves to the passenger seat, their breaths ghosting the air. “Go ahead and lay with Rome. You’re freezing anyway, the man’s a damn heater. Might as well make use of it.”

“You sure? You good alone?” He asks, even as he makes his way to recline the other half of the backseat and the brawler takes the driver’s spot.

He doesn’t catch Dean’s soft reply as they coast back onto the highway, out almost instantly as he tucks under Roman’s blanket and into his sleepy clutch, compress loosely wrapped to his spine.

“I’m perfect.”


	2. "It reminded me of you."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2\. "It reminded me of you."
> 
> Daniel's work takes him out of the country for two weeks. Miz, without him there, spirals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so the theme of these is just going to be 'really tired but uploads anyway' and 'really should read the chapter before posting, but doesnt' so here it is! the miz/daniel chapter #1 of however many i can reasonably squeeze into here  
> anyway im. tired and my eyes hurt here's 1.5k of indulgent domesticity

It starts with Daniel, as every annoyance in Miz's life does nowadays.

Miz very, very,  _ very hesitantly, and not at all aloud,  _ misses the tiny vegan. Coffee in the morning was slow, he bumped blindly into walls and stubbed his toes on corners, made stupid early-morning-mistakes without anyone to laugh and make light of it with their dumb, deep chested laugh. 

His mornings sucked without him, was the headline. The rest of the day sucked too, but the mornings were where Miz really felt his absence. There was no ball of walking sunshine to squint and mildly bask in, no life to liven his walls, no _Mike_ 's to half-heartedly correct to _Miz._

Miz could only compare it to something he previously felt before in his life, coming close to homesickness, and he  _ loathed  _ it.

Which is why when he hears the unmistakably  _ living _ shriek in a dumpster on his way to work, he hates that he pauses and hesitantly backtracks to peer into the dirty alley. He despises the smell, the guilt that nags when he nearly dips out a single step into the filth, the way he peers over the lip of the metal carefully. He detests the way his bare hands reach in and open a tilted shoebox to a small scruff of fur, a kitten not more than a few weeks old.

Miz loathes the way he calls in and pulls rank at his work to take the tiny kitten to a walk-in veterinary clinic. When they let him see it,  _ her,  _ he corrects himself, he's surprised. She's fluffy, a brownish-ginger tabby with startling blue eyes when she squints up at him. She seems to recognize him and stumbles toward him on tottering legs while the doctor rambles on.

She reminds him…

“–be going into shelter care.”

His head whips around, neck creaking in protest. “Shelter care?”

“Well, yes. We chipped her, she's just old enough for one, but since she's not been chipped it's safe to assume she doesn't belong to anyone.”

“I'll take her,” is out of his mouth before he can properly tell himself,  _ no, he really shouldn’t _ .

He manages to stave off the panic of  _ holy shit I own a kitten now, I should be at work and I own a kitten, and I've never owned a cat before oh shit–  _ until he gets home, paperwork crumpled in the crook of his elbow. His thumb brushes over Daniel's number for a half second before settling with Maryse. She always knows what to do. He doesn't need to bother Daniel, he's busy enough on his trip as it is without his dumb ass putting more on his plate.

“What do you want, I'm busy.”

“I adopted a kitten and I have no idea what to do.”

“... Have you called  _ ton autre moitié?” _

“What the hell does that mean?” He asks in the tone of voice that reads  _ I did not take any form of french in highschool or college.  _ “Speak english, I’m irritable and holding a ball of fur. Maryse. Maryse, it’s  _ meowing at me, Maryse–” _

“Have you called Bryan, you idiot? Or anyone else other than me?”

“His name is  _ Daniel,”  _ he answers hotly, ignoring her triumphant  _ oh, really?  _ “and he's busy on a trip out of the country. I don't want to bother him when he's so busy. He’ll be sleeping about now, I don’t want to bother him being. Clingy or whatever.”

“That’s considerate of you, _Miz._ I didn’t realize you knew his sleep schedule.” She teases to his wordless annoyance. “I don't know anything about cats, unfortunately. I _do_ know that _Daniel_ knows a lot about them though, so try him. Text me when you've named my niece or nephew.”

“Wait–” But she's already hung up.  _ Asshole. _

The furball has pulled from his hand, settling to climb his shirt as he settles more firmly into Daniel’s couch, and by the time he pulls himself together enough to actually hit  _ call _ he's laying on his back with the kitten napping on his chest,  _ muuurp _ ing in her sleep.

It's not that cute, he thinks, the way tiny predator sounds like Daniel when he forgets to put a nasal strip on before bed. It’s really not.

“H'llo?”

“Daniel. I… need help.”

“Oh?” He sounds more awake now. “You do, do you?”

“Yes. I have this… menace. A small cat. I accidentally adopted it before realizing I don't really know how to take care of one.”

Miz manages two heavy sighs before Daniel stops cackling into the phone.

“A menace, huh? How'd you  _ accidentally _ adopt an animal? No, first, why're you keep it in the first place? I thought you hated cats.”

Embarrassment burns hot on his tongue. “I don't! They're filthy animals, the pits of society! I can't stand them, the absolute demons! The stupid kitten was out in the cold and my damn conscious, the  _ stupid thing _ you _ gave me, _ made me take it and get it cleaned up at the vet!”

“Why the hell would keep if it you hate them so much? Jeez.”

Embarrassment sizzles out into heavy guilt and chilly anxiety.  _ Don’t say something dumb,  _ that softer part of him urges,  _ genuine. Be real with him, be honest. Tell him the truth. Open up. _

“I,” he stops and starts, pauses as Daniel waits patiently. “I don't hate them. I… got bit by a stray once, as a kid. Put me off to them. I can't read them very well, like dogs. They're stoic. But it, uh…”

“Yeah?” The phone prompts, quieter, encouraging.

**“It reminded me of you,** okay?” His mouth is moving faster than he can catch it once again, his nerves bubbling under his skin like a vibrating reminder of  _ what a dumbass you are, shut up, shut  _ up. “Is that good enough to get you off my back? It looked like you before I improved your quality of life, all pathetic with sad eyes and dirty hair and scraggly beard! I don't know how to take care of a cat, never mind a child-cat, Daniel!”

Daniel sounds remarkably fond, if exasperated. “It's a kitten, Mike, not a baby. Listen, get some paper, I'll help you make a list, okay?”

“Yeah! Yes, it's fine! I'm totally fine! And it’s  _ Miz,  _ to you!”

“Hey, take few breaths, alright?”

“I'm breathing!” He puffs out his chest to an empty room, the kitten shifting as his tone spikes. “I'm fine!”

“I know, you're always fine, but do it anyway? For me?”

That prick, tricking him into his weird yoga tricks, counting breaths or whatever. What a waste of time.

He won't admit the counting helped keep him a little more focused and level headed as he properly bought and rearranged his home for his new housemate. A few times he feels ready to have a damn heart attack, keeping the hellion from falling off too-big counters or getting stuck by the claws in something important. 

He settles on Hellspawn before eventually going with Lucretia after she latches firmly onto an ball of yarn that he'd fished from his grandmother's old sewing box. Lucretia sounded like an old lady name, and if the kitten’s attention continued to stray to his grandma's yarn over the plethora of toys he bought, then the kitten had to pay the price of betrayal.

Really, as much as he postured to others and sometimes himself, Lucretia almost soothed the ache of a missing Bryan, the days passing faster with her there to occupy his worries and attention. A warm body to his right, a companion in the mornings and evenings, not quite Bryan shaped, but one nonetheless.

Daniel returns home three days later and is immediately enraptured by the beast, her thorn claws putting holes in one of Miz’s nicer dress shirt as the smaller man attempts to remove her from her new perch: his shoulders.

It's alright, he wouldn't admit aloud as Daniel steps close to carefully untangle the cat from his neck, because the joy and crinkle of his eyes made all the stress worth it. “Good job, Mike,” Daniel hums into his shoulder when the kitten is safely on the floor, and nothing is more painfully  _ right _ than the man in his arms, beard brushing soothingly against his neck where his button up is pushed down under his stubborn chin.

Above all, Miz hates the way his voice quiets to something raw and soft, because he definitely doesn’t need Daniel’s approval of anything, didn't miss him,  _ shut up. _

“Thanks, Daniel.” 

_ Welcome back, welcome home. _


	3. "No, no, it's my treat."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3\. "No, no, it's my treat."  
> The first time Sami meets Dean, it’s El Generico watching Jon Moxley through a screen. He's gross, but beautiful. Generico thinks he might be in love. 
> 
> El Generico wakes up with shaking hands and unstoppable forces of nature dancing silhouetted in his mind's eye. 
> 
> When Dean and Sami actually meet, they aren't Jon or Generico. Maybe they never were in the first place. Memories like dreams, far away and second hand, another man, another life, another body so strikingly identical it makes you wonder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uh, turns out when you throw encouragement at me in any form, my word count jumps from like. a few hundred to nearly 5k words so heres slightly angst slightly fluffy sambrose that i edited over a billion times and had to reformat like. three more times. i am officially tired of editing this so just. take it

The first time Sami meets Dean, it’s El Generico watching Jon Moxley through a screen.

He's gross, but beautiful. Generico thinks he might be in love. 

At first, he thinks of the sun, glorious and bright, high in the sky, warm and burning, but no. No, he's a different breed of light, a moon. A lull in the night, a lighthouse in the stars, ever present and ever changing, dancing across the sky so vibrant against the dark.

Generico feels like those little sea turtles. Moxley, the moon he feels instinctively magnetic to. Guiding him. But he's no turtle, and Jon no moon. He's all wolf, sharp teeth and ruffled fur, powerful shifting muscles and intelligent eyes behind brute strength. 

He's crawled from the bottom with raw fingers and blunt, human teeth, hanging on untethered in the hurricane by pure force of will alone.

Jon Moxley is pure, natural born human, spirited and forged through immense pressure, as the most beautiful things in life are. 

He's beautiful, in a gross sort of way. Generico thinks he might be in love. 

Channeled power, chaos incarnate in his bones, a solidness that he feels so hungry for, an apocalypse bound to the whims of a man who looks at the order of the world and laughs in its face.

Then he watches the drunk man bellow, take an unnecessary fork to the forehead, eat the pin, and he wonders if Moxley is any more than a delusional, fucked up man from a fucked-up situation looking for answers in violence and gold-leather championships.

El Generico dreams of blood dripping down furrowed brows, washing a face in its crimson. He dreams of insistent plant life, vines and stems and greenery, against all odds surviving the harsh brutality of the world, thriving in its beauty. He dreams of roses, prickly things, of teeth and claws, of rolling storms, all heavy pressure and lightning that crackles and deafens, torrential rain that batters incessantly and floods everything in its path.

El Generico wakes up with shaking hands and unstoppable forces of nature dancing silhouetted in his mind's eye.

When Dean and Sami actually meet, they aren't Jon or Generico. Maybe they never were in the first place. Memories like dreams, far away and second hand, another man, another life, another body so strikingly identical it makes you wonder.

Maybe Moxley and Generico became Ambrose and Zayn. Maybe they were always who they were now. Maybe Moxley and Generico relinquished control and Ambrose and Zayn took over. Maybe they were some form of reincarnation.

Maybe they were simply the same men they'd always were and would be.

Somewhere, somewhen, Moxley and Generico become Ambrose and Zayn, and pass each other in their orbits. Rollins to Ambrose and Owens to Zayn, both glimpsing past one another on the same spin.

Sami is, frankly, getting the shit kicked out of him by Jericho when he hears Ambrose from the announce desk for the first time.

“Y’know, I’m a fan of Chris Jericho, he’s a legend, I’m a fan of Sami Zayn, but I gotta admit I’m rootin’ for Sami Zayn–” and then he’s taking elbows to the side of the head and focuses back to the match.

It’s farther into it that has him on the outside, dazed, flying sharply into the desk with a dropkick to the head. He can faintly recognize the announcers jumping back like spooked rabbits, Owens on his right and Ambrose on his left unflinching as he tumbled off onto a knee, flopping over onto his back and side as the world spun ever so slightly.

“C’mon Sami,” Ambrose is leaning over him slightly, a tinge of concern, of worry. Of course, he doesn't want Jericho to win and Sami's doing a poor job of stopping it. _ I’m a fan of Sami Zayn, I gotta admit I’m rootin’ for Sami Zayn– _ “You alright?”

_ No, _ he thinks, _ everything hurts. I hate Jericho. I hate Kevin _ . Then, a little more focused,  _ you’re very rough edged and gruff. Not my type, but you’re pulling it off completely. Wow. Eyes–  _ Jericho crashes into his peripheral and he flinches away, eye contact broken.

Jericho darts away from him to attack Ambrose instead, the brawler emitting a growl( _? _ ) of surprise before taking the man with him into their corner of barricade.  _ Thanks. _

Sami is barely up, sweaty palms on the plastic covering of the desk, Kevin spitting insults at him from his comfy seat when Jericho rears back to him. It’s almost too easy to use the man’s momentum to throw him up and over, into Kevin’s lap. It’s almost satisfying, seeing Kevin sprawled on his back, cringing. Almost.

The match continues, both him and Jericho finally in the ring. Kevin’s down, thank god, and Ambrose lost to the pace of the match. He’s so close,  _ so goddamn close, just get up, Jericho, get up, get up, get up, _ when Kevin’s throwing himself into the path between the fallen enemy and his own boot, landing blows faster than he can block them. A headlock, more hits to the head that’s already topsy turvy, then Jericho recovering and joining, and  _ I was so close, so close, Kevin why? and Hurts, hurts, stop– _

It’s Ambrose, in all his furious glory, speeding in and cornering Jericho into the turnbuckles and leaving Kevin to take handfuls of him and corral him back into the opposite corner.

He could take Kevin. Kevin was a familiar brand of pain. He could handle him. The larger man peered over his shoulder suddenly, leaving Sami to hang, gasping on the ropes as he intercepted where Ambrose was looking for Dirty Deeds on Jericho. The satisfaction comes full force now, taking place in his lungs where he gasps. Kevin’s breaking it up but, but, an opening.

His muscles protest immediately at the thought, but he takes a burning lungful of air anyway and when Jericho rolls out of the ring, Kevin manhandling Ambrose into place for the pop-up powerbomb, when that sixth wrestling sense lines up perfectly, he snaps into a short sprint.

The Helluva Kick is as natural as breathing itself and he lets himself go boneless on the ropes afterwards, as Ambrose paces angrily behind him, Kevin sprawling once more out of the ring. All he gets is a slap on the shoulder from Ambrose and that’s the end of it other than a hard-to-read glance.

Sami thinks back to the man leaning over him, the way his dried-out hair bunched and curled in little twists, more blonde-ginger than anything dark when it's wet. Day or two old stubble, eyebrows crinkled, nose slightly scrunched, full lips tilted in a slight frown. His eyes, slightly reflective in the bright light of the arena, a stark blue-green-grey, a universe within them. He probably made some dopey face, lined with pain. Probably embarrassed himself. Ugh, that was annoying.

He has the strange ability to be able to lurk, Sami learns. 

Sami’ll be munching on a sandwich, maybe some coffee if anyone dares let him pour some, and  _ bam, _ there’s Ambrose, watching him and holding that eye contact for a few more seconds and then glancing away. Staring across catering. Staring at him from across lots after matches and flashing him a faint smile before disappearing. It’s weird as all hell, but Sami doesn’t want to bother him. If Ambrose has beef, he isn’t going to be the one to instigate anything. Bigger chicken to fry or whatever it is.

He doesn’t watch his doomed match with Lesnar the night of WrestleMania, licking his own wounds and pressing ice to bruises in the hotel afterwards, but makes a point to keep an eye on him. Most he does is keep an eye as they pass each other, not quite breaching each other’s bubbles but brushing by. He keeps an eye on him just as he did the same.

He's a wild sort of man. Messy, something untamable and too big for himself in a way. Sami wonders how nobody else sees it. He's bared, snapping teeth and spittle, almost feral if not for his sharp wit. Sami thinks he might be in love, as gross as the man seems to be. 

Sami stubbornly stomps  _ that _ out right there, but it keeps creeping back in with each shared glance, every passing tag they make. 

A match with rivals, a tag team here and there at house shows where he gets a pat on the shoulder or arm in encouragement, a half-hug and murmured  _ y’okay, Sami? _ , where something in him says  _ not yet _ and he acknowledges it and continues on his way. It’s not time, whatever that means, but that something has never been wrong, so he doesn’t question it.

They don’t seem to really see each other until Money in the Bank rolls around and they both qualify, nearing as the pay per view begins to wind up. It’s strange, their chemistry in the squared circle. Ambrose is out of the ring and Sami can easily pick up where he left off, vise versa, despite their different styles.

He moves for the flip over the ropes and Ambrose gives him a shove before and after his bounce for extra speed and power when he flips. He climbs up the ropes in their corner to rile the crowd up when Kevin’s got him in a tight hold, pushing himself between the top and middle to lean closer as Sami reaches for him, desperate after a kick-out at two. 

He shouts encouragement and means it, winces for him when Jericho and Del Rio take turns breaking him down, cheers when he barely manages a Blue Thunder Bomb on Jericho.

Somewhere along the way, Ambrose becomes  _ Dean _ , becomes a little less of that unchained feral he unleashes in the ring and a little more  _ him _ . Somewhere along the way, Sami becomes  _ Sami, _ meaningful, more than a simple word and wow, he really likes the way that not-accent of his rolls his name.

Sami becomes…  _ fond, _ against his will. The creeping feelings hook their claws in his chest and carve out a place for the brawler, right where it hurts.

He becomes fond, but he doesn’t have time for it. Money in the Bank, a foothold he desperately needs over Kevin, is right around the corner. That doesn’t stop that softer part of him from searching for the man at catering or backstage, before he leaves by himself to the hotels of the week. Dean Ambrose is a fever he can’t sweat out, and it’s slowly consuming him.

It’s a tag team match that accelerates everything at the worst time. The pay per view is nearing and he’s set to tag with Dean and Cesaro. He just wants to strategize. Strategy wins matches, especially matches with numbers. One lapse in their force, one wrong step or crack in their team and they could lose. A loss none of them wanted or needed right now.

“Guys, you gotta keep your eyes out for Kevin,” he urges. “He can’t be trusted.”

“Good point,” Dean muses, tapping Sami’s chest with a knuckle as he shifts from side to side in his antsy way that he identifies with pre-match anticipation and post-match adrenaline. “Good point, he’s Canadian.” He emphasizes Canadian like that explains it. Cesaro looks like he’s biting back a laugh behind his sunglasses, nodding along with a small grin.

_ What _ . His head snaps back a little in offence, brow furrowing. “Hey, what’s–”

“Don’t sleep on Chris Jericho either,” he continues, look at him imploringly and then in amusement, likely remembering their Asylum match. “He’s probably got thumbtacks in his tights still bothering him. It’ll put you in a bad mood, y’know what I’m sayin’? So, he’s pretty dangerous, too.”

Cesaro murmurs his agreement.

“He’s also Canadian.”

Sami doesn’t bother fighting the crinkle of his nose, the slight insulted twist of his face. “What is that supposed to–”

“And Alberto Del Rio,” Cesaro cuts in. “He’s a four-time world champion and former Money in the Bank winner and he’s capable of  _ anything.” _

Dean gives a good point gesture between him and Cesaro as the Swiss removes his sunglasses and gives his eyebrows a raise. “You can see it in his eyes.”

“You’re right, you’re right, you’re  _ always _ right,” Dean gives Cesaro a more focused look. “Is that like a Swiss thing?”

The suited man looks almost smug. “Yeah, you know, we Swiss have a proud history of sound judgement.”

They both look contemplative before Dean speaks up again with a shrug. “At least he’s not Canadian.”

“You–” Sami cuts himself off with a scoff. _ I can be right, too, _ something petty speaks up.  _ Not now, _ he snaps back. “You know  _ I’m _ Canadian, right?”

Dean blinks at him, wide eyed, once, twice. His eyebrows furrow and scrunch in studying thought, eyeing him up, before jumping up in whispered realization.

_ “Ooooh.” _ He looks to Cesaro and the Swiss nods in agreement. “That explains so much!”

Sami’s face crumpled. What was that supposed to mean? But both are walking away, Dean looking thoughtful and Cesaro still faintly amused.

Whatever. He didn’t have time to be mopey about dumb elementary school crushes. He had to strategize, even if the others didn’t think it serious enough. All that comes from the group portion of the meeting is Dean apparently  _ hates _ Canadians. Okay, no, that’s being dramatic, he doesn’t hate Canadians, but there’s a dislike. He’d thought… maybe he’d been reading the atmosphere wrong. Maybe it was the famous in-ring atmosphere, that supernatural, volatile energy that exists in and around the ring.

Whatever. _ Whatever.  _ It didn’t matter.

Sami feels fire under his skin where Dean stares him down, clenching and unclenching his outstretched hand and bouncing on the tips of his toes. It’s an itch in Sami’s veins that burns in the name of  _ Dean Ambrose _ despite his irritation at the man, that forces him up despite his pains and pushes him towards the man to tag him in; a small leap and a short tumble to the padded floor, as stiff as concrete for his efforts. Such was the way of the business, he grouched as he carefully probed and tested his welting chest and back.  _ Hello, old friends. _

The cool floor is kind to his irritated skin, but he peels from it to catch the man in action. Dean careens from one side of the ring to the other, ropes to ropes to turnbuckle to turnbuckle, brute strength and speed in a powerful combination that dominates Jericho and any defense the man attempts. 

Sami can’t look away.

That wildness, teeth and wide eyes and sweat and saliva, the tensing and releasing in his muscles and movement, the strong impact of footfall on the canvas, the speed and strength and coiled power of squared shoulders, thin waist, charged and ready, the angry panting and in-out-in-out breaths. A sharp pinprick focus and chaotic blows that give him phantom aches just watching. Intensity that’s so potent Sami feels like the match’s just started looking at him, being near him, that he could do anything. A thousand Blue Thunder Bombs, a million Helluva Kicks.

_ Hell, _ everything hurts.

Sami takes a few seconds to himself, charging back up. He wasn’t called Battery Man for nothing other than his own ditziness. He only bothers to pick himself back up to peer in again when a fan calls out in worry for Dean. Thankfully Cesaro intervenes, Dean pressing himself into an unoccupied corner to breathe and recover while Del Rio takes out the Swiss who’d been prepping Jericho for the Swing. He needed to intervene while they had the advantage of Kevin out of the ring and the other two mildly dazed.

He could get a Helluva kick if he timed it right, the way Del Rio was wobbling on his feet. He was in the wrong corner, but if he could swerve…

Sami catches Dean’s eyes, the man raising his eyebrows in question.  _ Do you trust me?  _ Dean stares and then hesitantly nods. The full force of his stare, of his attention, of his trust, nearly makes Sami lose his nerve right there on the spot.  _ You’re Sami freakin’ Zayn.  _

Right. He could do this.  _ Whatever you do, _ he begs himself as he dives between the ropes of their corner into a crouch and then to his feet,  _ don’t hit Dean. Or Cesaro, but mostly Dean. Don’t hit him, don’t hit him, don’t– _

Dean looks terrified and then something akin to awed when he breaks into a dead sprint towards him, nearly needing to slingshot off the ropes around the winded man at how fast and sharp the angled turn is, but he manages somehow. He almost doesn’t even land the kick at the speed of it, but the crack of his foot planting across Del Rio’s face was such a lovely sound, worth the stress. Worth that look on Dean's face.

Sami gets a half second of  _ that was so cool _ before he turns around and eats a Superkick from Kevin. Right on his jaw, the force of it making his muscles shriek and bones creak. Everything goes sideways for a moment as Kevin barks out a short laugh.

Goddamnit.

He catches Dean’s eyes for a half second, panic sparking to life in his chest as Kevin grabs him by the back of the neck, throws him into the ropes, and then into the air for the Pop-Up Powerbomb. He barely jumps it and takes the most ungraceful skid across the mat, barely catching the ropes to keep from an even nastier fall out of the ring as Dean takes the man by surprise in a second wind.

Sami lifts his head in time to catch the tail end of the Dirty Deeds, the concussive sound and physical rattle of the ring. Then Dean’s throwing himself over Kevin, pinning him and throwing a leg up, visibly shaking and shifting in excitement. The furious riff of guitar echoes into the arena after a loud  _ one, two, three! _ and Dean is back to pacing as Cesaro joins them and shit, Sami can barely stand for a few half seconds before flopping back to sit of the ropes, holding his zinging jaw.

But it’s a win, between the three of them. A small smile pulls at the corners of his lips, a sort of wonderment. They actually did it.

He catches Dean’s eye again, but he glances up and away from him to the briefcase hanging from the roof and suddenly he’s Ambrose again, pointing at himself, snapping his teeth and shouting about how the Money in the Bank was his.

Sami would be disappointed if he didn’t hurt so much, outweighed by aches, pains, and adrenaline.

From there it’s a few glances passed again, they all talk on ladders before the pay per view and while Dean isn’t particularly warm and fuzzy, he doesn’t snap at him. He says he simply wants to fight. Fair enough. They really are enemies in the match, after all. Simple few-time partnerships made only because of the match itself.

Maybe it really was a one-sided energy. The man is magnetic, and Sami just… didn’t have the energy to match it, he guessed. But it’s not the time to worry about it, as much as it nags at him like an itch he can’t shake. This was the turning point, steering himself and the championship in a new direction. Away from Kevin.

Sami takes a ladder to the stomach and a kick to the head. The worst of it is Del Rio hanging him upside down from the turnbuckles and repeatedly balancing the ladder to slam it into his chest. His arms aren’t enough to block it, firmly pinned as he kicks it over and over, eventually giving it up for another superstar when he drops his arms entirely.

And then everyone’s laid out except for Jericho, halfway up the ladder. It’s quick work scaling it and Jericho nearly punches him off, if not for Kevin throwing the whole ladder onto its side and tossing both from the cold steel.

Sami eats ropes and doesn’t get up for a solid minute when his ribs shriek at his impatient squirming and that weird phantom sensation in the back of his mind tells him to not get up, to give it a minute and test them before attempting anything. 

Then it’s Kevin. Kevin,  _ it’s always Kevin, _ and it’s fists and sweat and phantom blood and he’s lifting his rival completely and dropping him into the craziest, strongest driver he’s ever done in his life on the ladder and Kevin doesn’t get up and nobody else is there and it’s  _ his time, Sami’s time, it’s all up to this, _ steel under his fingers and shaking body, welts and bruises rising with him as he ascends.

The briefcase is under his fingers, under his palm, and he’s desperate, reaching and reaching and it’s so far away.

Two hits in with a ladder to the back that he sees it’s Del Rio again. Then two hits become four, become nine, and he’s up only because he had the passing thought to tangle his arms in the steps of the ladder at three. His back is one pulsing patch of red-hot agony and a DDT lays him out at last, black spots dancing in his vision as the crowd screams for him. 

He’s tired. So tired of fighting. Tired of absorbing blows and dancing in Kevin’s shadow, but he can’t give up now.  _ Can’t. _ So, he gives each limb a test and works himself slowly to his knees, the exertion and exhaustion weighing him down.

The fans power him the rest of the way to his feet, crawling back up and fighting Del Rio as he does, and then they’re all there, all six of them, the idiots, balanced on ladders and scrambling to the top. He’s stuck between beating Jericho to a pulp once more and getting the briefcase and then the case is in hand,  _ in hand, in his hand, right there, grab it! _ The rest fall like dominos until it’s him and Kevin, one on one once again, and for once he drops Kevin and he stands above, victorious. Not acidic or soured, just plain, untarnished victory.  _ Fucking finally. _

That other sense rushes forward in excitement and he’s climbing again, up and up and up and the case is in his hands and he’d be sick of the will-he, won’t-he if it wasn’t for the promise the case radiates. If he’s  _ enough, _ if he’s good enough, reaches enough, gives enough, it’ll be his– Jericho pushes him off, but he climbs back up and then Kevin’s back,  _ Christ, just stay down you bastard! _

There’s a moment where everything stills, everything silences, and then Kevin’s screaming his fury and Sami’s being Pop-Up Powerbombed into a ladder. There’re hands in his hair, shaking him, but he’s so far away, so detached from his own body that he can’t find himself to be angry or even irritated. He can already hear Kevin climbing to the top.

Sami doesn’t get up.

The trainers wrap him up in layers and layers of tape and compress packs and coat him in cream for the nasty bruises, already beginning to spot up in pitch blacks and blues. They focus on his ribs and give him a sling on his more irritated arm. No driving, they tell him. Fine, he was riding with Cesaro anyway, wherever the Swiss wandered off to sulk. He barely catches the end of the next match, Rollins and Reigns for the title.

Dean rushes out and cashes in and as bittersweet as it is, he’s glad it’s Dean and not Rollins. He thinks of that awed look on Dean's face, as bright as it was when they’d tagged, of eyes burning into him as he climbed ladders, and he thinks that same look is probably on his face as he watches him take the title. That euphoric of a look is so brilliant, so genuine and blazing he can feel his own mood rise with him.

Sami’s really having a shitty night unlike Dean, because Cesaro doesn’t answer any texts or messages despite agreeing that no matter the outcome they’d leave together. Damn it. He resolves to wait out the traffic of the post-pay per view before calling a taxi or whatever they have in Vegas after seeing their rental gone from the superstar lot. He's tired and hungry and everything aches. He wonders how Dean feels. Did he feel as aching? Did he have that new-title high? Did he feel as enraptured as Sami did with him? Did he wonder about Sami as he did him? Did he wander empty hallways thinking about him, like Sami did?

He settles with no and pushed exhaustion-numbed legs under himself for a walk. It'd be good, getting some life into his legs. Sami doesn't realize he's sulking until he turns a sharp corner and crashes into a titled body. His body shrieks his protest and suddenly he's becoming one with the wall because  _ hell that hurts. _

Dean seems just as bad, but that just makes his heart hurt rather than fill him like vindication like he thought it would. Idiot heart.  _ Stupid, _ he thinks when a weight lifts from his chest at the sight of the man who carefully picks himself up.  _ Stupid. _

“Wo-ah, Sami, you tryin’ to jump me so fast after getting the title?”

“No, no, I-uh… Cesaro left me. Gotta get back and I’m waiting for traffic,” the words fountain out of him. “Trainers said I can’t drive because of my arm so I gotta catch a different ride.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, uh, sorry.” He ducks his head and Dean’s blank stare, moving around him to continue down the hall.  _ Don't look at him. Don't look at him. Don't. Don't do it. It's a trap.  _ His heart stings in bitter irritation. _ It's always a trap. _

A hand catches his elbow and he flinches back, head whipping around. Hope trickles in and he stubbornly crushes it back down and out.

Dean looks almost bashful, focused squarely on the floor with a closed off expression. “Hey, uh, do y’need a ride?”

His lips thin. “If you’re going to be beat the hell out of me, you might as well do it here, instead of in a garage or a car or something.”

“No, I– Fuck!” He shouts, voice echoing in the enclosed hall, hands clenching and fidgeting with the sides of the belt’s straps where it was haphazardly slung over a shoulder. “I didn’t,  _ fuck, _ I’m bad at this. Sorry.”

“Look, Dean,” the man’s eyes dart to his own. Wide and striking, beautiful, really. “What do you want from me? Because I ache and I hurt and I'm caseless and titleless. What do you want that I can reasonably give you?”

“A date.”

Sami chokes.

“You don’t have to! I can just, uh, drive you back to your hotel. Or maybe pick something up on the way?” The way his voice tilts up at the end of the question in hope is barely there, almost non-existent.

“I should be getting you something, champ,” he spits out. Dean gives him a firm slap on the back that carries him a few steps forward and makes his back pulse in deep-seated sore spots. At least he looks apologetic, the same hand jerking towards his back again, this time in apology but aborting halfway through. 

If it was a trap, it was a well baited one. But if it wasn't… maybe he deserved this. Either outcome. It could hurt to try, but he was sick of weird wrestling politics. That something in him nags, pushes and pushes toward him, and that's the last it takes for him to give in. Everything could go wrong, but Sami was honestly just tired of trying to play every move slow and safe. 

“Let me buy you a coffee or something. A thank you for driving me, then. People like coffee, right?”

**“No, no, it’s my treat,”** Dean grins, something genuine and toothy. “Pick your poison, Samster.”

“It’s Sami and I’m thinking… I dunno, what’s open in Vegas at... too-early o'clock? That isn't sketchy?”

“Prolly, uh… donuts. Maybe like, a 24-7 diner or somethin’. I know a place. If you're interested.” Dean looked him up and down, squared his shoulders, widened his posture and then stared him down. Testing him? Maybe he was preparing for disappointment or teasing. Empathy sounded in his bones.

“Donuts it is, Dean-o.”

“Dean-o and Samster! That’s our new tag name!” His partner laughs, hiding a snort behind a hand.

“Oh my god, did you just snort?” That was adorable, holy shit.

“Hey! Don’t make fun of my laugh!” He looks mock offended and slightly conscious in equal measure.

Sami puts a hand to his back, giving as much of a smile as he can muster and managing something real when Dean leans into the hesitant touch. “Don’t worry about it. It was cute.”

“Cute,” he scoffs and begins walking in the direction of the lot. “Right. So, is that a yes? To the date thing?”

“Yeah. As long as it’s somewhere cool for the second. Like mini golf or like, a haunted house.”

Dean barks out a booming laugh. “A haunted house, hell of a second date, kid!” Then quieter, wonderstruck,  _ “the second date.” _

“What,” it’s Sami’s turn to be embarrassed by his slip up but he's known for fumbling conversation, so he rolls past it with practiced ease, “too cool for you, cool guy? Haunted houses are peak weirdness, okay? Where the lines of reality blur and spirits like ghosts and the supernatural can exist, that kinda stuff is neat. If I can’t get a boyfriend to fight a ghost for me, what’s the point?”

Dean beams. “Boyfriend, huh?” Damn, two strikes were all it took for Dean to call him out?

“Uh. Coffee! Coffee and donuts, right champ? Let’s go.” He takes his hand and begins quickly pulling him faster down the hall, heat rising to his ears and cheeks against his will.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean echoes behind him in a smile wide enough it’s verbal more than physical. “It was cute.”


	4. "Come here. Let me fix it."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4\. "Come here. Let me fix it."
> 
> Roman stressed. 
> 
> He paced, wrung his hands, twitched his fingers and cracked his joints, readjusted his gear or beanie and hummed under his breath until all the nervous energy was released back into the world and he was back to the confident, self-assured Big Dog who ran the locker room.
> 
> Sometimes, it wasn't that simple. That's where Dean stepped in, he supposed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is pretty dialogue heavy, or at least more than normal. anyway i can only write sappy stuff gdjherfjkdjd

Roman stressed. 

He paced, wrung his hands, twitched his fingers and cracked his joints, readjusted his gear or beanie and hummed under his breath until all the nervous energy was released back into the world and he was back to the confident, self-assured Big Dog who ran the locker room.

Sometimes, it wasn't that simple. That's where Dean stepped in, he supposed.

“Oh damnit,” Roman hisses from down the dark hallway he’d nearly walked straight past. There he is, lurking at the back in a dark, dead end hall, pacing back and forth, yanking at his hair with sharp, strained movements. Redwood-sized motherfucker could be sneaky when he wanted to be. “Stupid hair. Damnit.”

“Hey, been lookin’ for you everywhere, Ro. Hidin’ from me or something?”

That only seems to stress him more, lines in his face deepening. Dean could see where his tied hair, usually slicked back and tightened into a perfect little bun, was in complete disarray. Like he'd tangled his fingers in it and pulled until little curls of hair had freed to arch out, small wavy strands tickling his forehead and trickling around his ears in small spirals, still dry and fluffy. His bun was even looser, smaller and hanging low at the base of his neck. Some of his hair had just straight fallen from it, a half-up half-down look, natural unlike what the hair and makeup fabricated in the people of the business.

Dean felt like he was looking at something holy, the face of the untouched Earth even at the ruffled condition of the usually put-together man. Natural formations of mountains and rock-granite in every curve, the bend of his nose, the strong, smooth cut of his jaw and cheekbones when he glances up. Scattered streams, rivulets, rivers in every loose strand and bunch of curling hair. The arch of royal trees towards the sky in every straighten of his spine, the stretch of plains over his skin as he fidgeted. 

Dean abruptly told himself to shut up and shut _that_ down.

Most important of all, Roman looked a second from falling apart, shifting in place with a heavy, distraught look. Dean moved slowly, taking his shoulders and walking him backwards to sit on a crate with solid, telegraphed movements.

When Roman breaks the brittle silence, Dean is casually, patiently, letting his palms warm the man’s arms as he ran his hands up and down them slowly. His voice is low and hollow, sending shivers down his spine at the void the words leave behind. 

"I can't do this.”

Holy shit, four words and he's officially spooked the unshakable Dean fuckin’ Ambrose. Good job, buddy. “Yes, you can.”

“I _can't.”_

“You _can,_ and you _will._ Isn't that what you told me, big guy?”

The words bring back memories, their conversation mirrored back with Dean digging his nails into his arms during an anxiety attack, knees to his chest in a bathroom. That same void, that same force ripping the air from his lungs, setting every faded scar ablaze.

“Dean. I can't do this. Every time I try... it's pointless.”

“Roman. _Ro,”_ he waits until he has the man’s eyes again. “If y'don’t wanna chase after him again, y' don’t gotta. Nobody’s gonna make you. Except Trips, but even he knows about burn out. But.”

“But?”

“I don’t think this is the end of it. I think–” He cut himself off. Roman didn’t need an opinion. He needed an ear, not a mouth.

“No, tell me. Even if I don’t like it, your voice is, it's nice. Grounding.”

He takes a moment to search the hall, listening for footfalls or soft breathing some sign of life. When he's sure the hall is clear, turns back with a single-minded focus. If he needed to do anything ever, it was this. Dean wasn't good at a lot, but he's about half sure at this point he was put on the damn planet to fuck people up and give comfort accompanied by dramatic speeches to Roman Reigns.

Dean leaned forward until he was pushing Roman’s thighs apart and pulling him close, almost holding him, and carefully unwrapping his hair tie from its messy bundle. The hair was silky and soft under his fingers as he ran them through it, dragging his blunt nails over his scalp with each slow pull. Comforting drags of his nails over his back with the other hand, anything he could remember his mother doing for him to calm him.

Roman went limp with a heavy sigh, leaning his forehead into his chest. The heavy lines disappear as he relaxes piece by piece, section by section. Dean inhales, exhales, inhales, and drops his voice to its low, natural timbre. 

A sort of deeper voice he only tended to use in hotel rooms and behind closed doors. Years of drugs, alcohol, all the stupid stunts he'd managed to make it out of, all resulting in a rough, deep chested rumble. Something he wasn't particularly proud of, unable to hit the high notes of karaoke, unable to hit _anything_ relatively high, actually, but enough to pass normally. A gruffness he knew relaxed or excited, that sparked shivers down spines.

“I think y’re powerful and strong, and I think it’s shitty that y' feel like you gotta try and be that leader for everyone. I think y’re burnt out from fighting Lesnar, think the deck’s stacked ‘gainst you. I think y’re strong willed, strong in a way that can’t be manufactured, strong in the way that matters, but that’s hard work too. I think you deserve better,” and the words catch in his lungs as he leans away, his fingers tangled halfway in the hair tie keeping him close as Roman met his eyes, wide and full of emotion and _life._

Seeing him. That look would never fail to make him breathless, the intensity, the genuine attention.

Dean's voice is softer, lower, pure bass and whispering breaths as he glances away. “I think y're bright and a sort of thing that wouldn’t, _shouldn’t_ have graced me in this lifetime. But you did and you’re probably the greatest thing that’s happened to me. To _them_. You told me you fought for that title, that championship because the Universe deserved a champ worthy of it.”

Dean tastes the words carefully, meeting his wide, attentive gaze again even as it sears him. This, he knows, as much as he's known anything in his life. “The locker room did, too. I think you need, _needed,_ to fight the title for yourself, too, but got lost in that unending pit of selflessness you have. I think if y'really wanna back down, that’s okay. They’ll call y' fake, but only because y're so larger than life people think you’re superhuman.

"You deserve it, but not at the cost of yourself.”

Roman stares and he shifts nervously in place, fingers mindlessly tangled in his hair as he holds the eye contact.

_“...Thank you.”_

“Oh hell, Ro, don’t cry.” Fuck, he messed up, said the wrong shit. Dumbass, idiot, absolute fuckin’ dumbass, bad. Bad Ambrose. Bad.

“Nah, Deano, happy tears, _happy tears._ You and your prose, what the _hell,_ man? You a poet in another life or some shit? Fuck.” He runs his wrist over his eyes a few times, touches hesitantly at his messy hair and Dean can feel himself get painfully tender at the motion.

 **“Come here. Let me fix it.”** Roman goes with Dean’s control again, pressing his forehead to his chest again as he fixes his hair. Not as tight or as clean as he did it himself, but close enough.

“Sorry. Not perfect, but I tried.”

A backward hand scopes out the bun before tangling in his own as it tucks and flattens a few stray hairs. Roman is wet eyed and raw, makeup-less and blotchy faced, and he's still as handsome, as _beautiful_ as the day Dean laid eyes on him. He looks tired, exhausted, but that light is back in his eyes. Dim, but present. He'd sparked it and Ro would rev himself up in time.

Time. All they had was time, and never enough of it. It was hard to think that just a handful of years ago he was spitting teeth and chugging alcohol like it was the end of the world. In a way he'd thought it was, for him. But now...

Dean can feel his own eyes beginning to burn and he pulls from Roman's grasp, leaning down to quickly wrap his arms around the larger man, pressing into his shoulder and tangling his fingers together behind his back despite the awkward angle.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he says, pressing closer and memorizing every sense he can feel light up at the contact. “We both are. We’re gonna be amazin’, Ro. Have been and will be.”

“Yeah, we are. You and me, Dean. You and me against the world.” The end jumps like a question and he can feel his throat tighten with it. Dean leans back, still bound close by Roman's arms tangled around his waist. 

He doesn't bother to check for any passing eyes or ears this time, focused only on the other man, the singular, most important man in the world in this moment. He takes his face in his calloused palms and runs his thumbs over his cheekbones, tracing the frame of his face. Tracing features by clear memory, one if the only things his brain could cleanly remember without pause, soaking up the warmth memories and imagination couldn't recreate. To bask in all of it.

Dean smiles, genuine and free, lets their noses bump. Presses their foreheads together and breathes out into Roman. Always Roman, and also Dean, and always both of them together.

“Of course, Ro. Always. _Always.”_


	5. "I'll walk you home."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5\. "I'll walk you home."
> 
> Finn doesn't party much nowadays, doesn't like the drinking because at this point the cons outweigh the pros.  
> Sometimes a little liquid courage isn't bad though, he'll admit, especially when it comes to the handsome man behind the counter at the local open-late diner, Reigns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i should probably reread this again and edit some more but honestly i rewrote this damn prompt three times. three. three times. i just want to move on so here's some tipsy finn trying for smooth and landing at awkward with some obliging roman

Karl had insisted. That was what he would tell anyone who asked. 

Karl had insisted, Luke was drunk as all hell, and he had poor impulse control when he was tipsy. The night had passed relatively fast, from the party jumping as Bálor, paint chipping, flaking, and smearing more with each new swarm of people looking to get close, to escaping into the night as Finn. Everyone wanted to touch, everyone wanted to see, everyone wanted to be close, that when he finally escapes the last of it, towel in hand, he remembers why he stopped this sort of life in the first place.

That’s how every year seems to go, he thinks as he stumbles down the steps of the porch and shivers through the chill that cools his sweat slick skin, he forgets and gets swept up into the festivities. Party and bar hopping like he’s twenty-one again. God what is he now, twenty-six, seven, eight? Nine? Was he thirty? Even the memories blur, years of poor decisions and worse substances muddling with the alcohol in his system even as it dims from the pyre it had made in his stomach, wears off with pitch-dark suburbia and the chill of early-morning.

How many years spent trashing his body, picking fights? Drinking of all kinds? Somewhere in the mess of his mind, he finds a sense of pride. His downfall, but not in the measures that he feels now. Pride at finding a rock-bottom to hit, at rising from it and getting himself back into school. Now, though, that feeling withers into shame. How close was he to taking one too many shots and passing out in some random person’s home? How close to even slipping back into that mindset?

Finn finds, at least, his stuff is still on him. His wallet is still safely tucked into his boots, along with his phone. The sweaty screen reads a stark 2:49, ticking silently onto fifty as he smears the back of a hand over his eyes. Red and black comes away but the towel is already a messy black-grey-red-pink, so he wipes up some of the sweat-paint and throws it around his neck. There’s a small street corner, still surrounded by long rows of houses, that boasts a late-hour diner and a Seven Eleven. Finn wipes a thumb on his thigh and tries calling Karl first.

The sidewalks break down as he approaches the corner, older and covered in history and age. Weeds peek out between slabs, the dates and initials written in counting back in time, fading out as he walked, head down and phone ringing distantly in his ears.

_“This is Karl, be a good brother and leave a message, will ya?”_

Jasmine and ivy crawl the walls of the building as he approaches, taking a breath and wiping his hands down one of the few patches of unpainted skin as takes the door handle to the store. He tries Luke this time as he ducks the double-take at the counter and disappears into the forest of tall shelves. A bag of cheddar popcorn, they’ve got small chocolate donuts on discount, so he grabs two plastic wraps of them, some milk that’s a day from expiration.

_“It’s ya boy Luke, leave a message! Karl, would you kindly get the hell off? What? It’s still recording? Wh–”_

Finn huffed, dialing Karl again as he snatched two towels from the miscellaneous aisle. He’s pretty sure he’s accidently wiped some paint on it by the time he shuffles to the register, but the woman there is too busy pretending to not look at him to check it as he tosses a few coins in the donation box and pays for his things.

The diner next door is abandoned for all but a man behind the counter on his phone, but he sweeps quickly to a back corner as fast as he can anyway. Thankfully, one of the towels was one with a hood, allowing him to sit on it and use it to cover his back half, wrapping the other one around himself as the A/C quickly plastered the filthy mess of sweat, liquor, water, and whatever else to his skin.

_“This is Karl, be a good brother and leave a message, will ya?”_

“I’ll leave you a message alright,” he hisses under his breath as it beeps at him, and then louder. “Hey, where the fook are you? I’m guessing Luke is with you, seeing as both of you arseholes left me at Rollin’s place. What the hell happened to responsible designated drivers? Listen, I’m at that diner on 14th, by the seven eleven, call me back or meet me if you’re still up, alright? Call me.”

Finn hangs up and takes a moment to stare at his phone, the way some of the paint on his hands that hadn't rubbed off yet clung to the light-colored case, crusted into the buttons and small crevasses.

“You gonna order anything?”

Finn snapped his head up, and then craned it back farther to meet the man's eyes. Whiskey brain says holy fuck, I wanna climb him like a tree. Normal, rational brain cuts that train of thought off at the pass and takes over quickly. “Yeah, uh, sorry, d'ya have hotcakes?”

“We sure do. You want anything else with that?” The man doesn't bother to write it down, but absentmindedly licks a thumb and flattens a stray hair back into his tight ponytail, and Finn can feel a shiver race down his spine like an earthquake. Holy shit.

“Coffee,” he blurts, pulling his towel tighter around him. “Or, uh, anything warm? It's a bit chilly and I don't have a ride just yet.”

The man, Reigns he spots on the chipped plastic name tag, frowns as his brow furrows. “Well, what're you doing back here then, man? It's way warmer by the bar,” he jerks his head towards the register. “Plus, you look like you could use the company.”

Finn shrugs after a moment of thought. He wasn't gonna turn down a direct offer like that from what was probably the most handsome man on the damn continent. Even at the cost of possibly embarrassing himself. He half stumbles after him, slipping onto a barstool as the man turned on the coffee pot (coffee pot, Jesus) and rolled up his faded red shirt to a sleeve tattoo, tightening his bun again and beginning to put together batter. It’s a very difficult thing, trying not to melt in the seat. Big strong arms, fitted shirt, the dusting of facial hair and the soft hum as he makes Finn’s food, the slight sway to his hips and fluttered from setting to setting in the open kitchen.

“So, what’s your story?”

“I used to be a big party guy but… not anymore, I suppose. Got a little drunk, got the munchies, waiting for my pals to pick me up.”

Reigns smiles over his shoulder, and Finn’s breath comes in a sharp exhale. “I meant the full get-up.”

“Oh! Uh, it’s an old tradition, full make-up every Halloween and this year was demon, but all those people pressed close and sweaty kinda…” He spreads his arms out, making a face at the heavily smeared mess over his chest, black and white making a colored mess of the red. 

“Smeared it?”

“Yeah. I’m usually a lot cooler.”

“You are, are you?” He chortled, raising an eyebrow as Finn flushed. He muffled a yawn behind a hand, huffing. 

“Yeah, I actually am. Finn Bálor, know the name?”

“Don’t yawn! You’ll start a– the man himself yawned wide, eyes watering. “–yawn chain. And yeah, I do know the name. Bit of a daredevil, they say.”

Reigns rose to his full height, stretching high and popping his joints as he removed his apron and began rolling it up, and Finn felt that heat burn back up to his ears as he traced the silhouette in shitty fluorescent light. A solid, earthly shadow against a painful neon background, slowing the pounding the headache behind his eyes.

 _Fuck,_ he’s whipped as all hell. “Ye-eah. Daredevil, that’s me.”

Reigns looks amused again, and Finn stuffs the first hotcake into his mouth and avoided his eyes as he poured a cup of coffee, hunching farther into his towels with a small grin.

“I’m a college student.” He glances away when Reigns turns to look at him. “Mythology.”

Thankfully, Reigns doesn’t laugh or anything, simply glances up at him as he leans against the back wall. “Do you go to the one down the street?”

“Yeah, do you know it?”

Reigns flashes him a toothy grin. “I’m going there. Don’t got a major yet, still an underclassman.”

“Oh, nice! Do you have Hardy?”

“Yeah, why?”

“He talks about you a lot. _Good thing!”_ He cuts over himself, “Good stuff, he says you’re one of his, uh, favorites. Really smart and nice and…”

That grin is back, a little smug as Finn burns bright. “And?”

“Really pretty.”

“Professor Hardy said that?”

“No,” he itched at his jaw, refusing to look away as it’s Reigns’ turn for color to rise. “That’s my own addition, but the rest… I’ll take his word for it.”

Finn drops his head again and shoves another hotcake in his mouth, eyeing the touched expression as Reigns thinks on it.

He slows between mouthfuls of flat cake to meet Reigns’ eyes, where the man was intently studying him between the few scrubs of the griddle, putting the last plate on the counter. _“Woaght?”_

Reigns shakes his head, corner of his mouth twitching up. “Nothing’. Just thinking.”

“‘Bout what?”

“Closing time’s soon. Thinking about walking home, usually I have my friend Dean with me on shift to go with but I’m alone tonight.”

 **“I’ll walk you home,”** he blurted, slapping a delayed hand to his mouth after swallowing.

Both of Reigns’ eyebrows jumped and an unreadable expression passed his face. Finn wants to let the Earth swallow him. “O-Or not! I don’t want to be creepy and we don’t know each other, I could walk you a few blocks away? For safety in numbers? Or, uh–”

“It’s fine, don’t have an anxiety attack, man.” Reigns' hand is large and warm against the back of his neck when he gives a comforting squeeze. “Walk me a few streets down, will you?”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” he coughs out, bashfulness swallowing him where his own loose tongue left a void. Reigns sighed with another warm grin that toasted him inside and out.

“It’s not intruding, y’damn idiot. You offered and I’m taking you up on it. A few streets away from my house is intruding?”

“No, I’m just–” Lovestruck and a little drunk, “–trying to be careful. We’re pretty much strangers other than my oversharing. Don’t want to upset you or make you, ah, uncomfortable.”

The large Samoan turned to properly face him, leaning close with both hands on his shoulders. “Then let’s clear this up. You are, in no way, making me uncomfortable, and I would like you to walk me towards my house and give me your number.”

 _His number?_ His number, Reigns wanted his number, oh Lord Karl and Luke would never let him live this down. He’d embarrassed himself beyond belief, and yet Reigns still wanted his number? Dear lord.

“Breathe, Finn. Try breathing, in and out.”

“I’m normally a lot more put together than this,” he squeaks out.

“I figured it was the alcohol,” Reigns surmises, pulling a sharpie from his rolled-up work apron and taking his hand. His phone number tickles his palm and he fights to not twitch or clench his hand as he writes it out slowly and clearly. “Are you sure you don’t need me to call and Uber or something for you? Are your friends still coming?”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry about me,” he bobs his head, still locked on those pale blue ice eyes. “I’ll make it home. Jus’ wanna walk _you_ home, Reigns.”

“Well, let’s get going then, drunkie.” The large man smiles at him one more time, holding out a hand when he stumbles out of his seat, tucking his bag of donuts and milk under an arm. He only catches a glimpse of _Roman Reigns, the hotcake man_ on his palm, and Finn wants to memorize and frame the feeling that bubbles up in his chest, or of his sharpie-tingling hand clasped clammily in the other man’s as he hits the lights, locks up quickly, and guides him down the road, illuminated only by the Seven Eleven twinkling behind them and the soft bass of parties in the distance, still spinning on without him.


	6. "Have a good day at work."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 6\. “Have a good day at work.”
> 
> Finn cherishes every evening he tucks into bed with Seth there, arms open and waiting. He wouldn’t give those moments for the whole damn world. Anyone who knew of them knew that. Something even more precious, though, something he kept between himself and Seth, was the mornings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part 1 of 2, of the double update  
> i whipped these both out fast and they're similar in boyfs bein soft in bed related content so!! why not  
> this is set when finn is out, but before seth's knee gets injured

Some of your fondest memories of him come in the form of his tired self.

Many nights were spent up, listen to music in the dark or watching cheesy movies and infomercials early into the morning as the travel schedules haunted you into your injury-downtime. He would insist that he stay up with you despite shipping out early the next days, claiming it wouldn’t be right knowing you were staying up alone, struggling to sleep with a wacky internal clock or the pain of your shoulder, the ache of injury and recovery. The way recovery felt like the tide, making progress and losing it, making some more and then getting it pushed back farther. Every over-eager pull of your shoulder pushing the date farther and farther from your reach, casting you ever farther into the shadows. Driving you slowly insane, he said.

Sometimes you couldn’t sleep because you couldn’t stop thinking. Sometimes you couldn’t sleep because of the irrational guilt that settles in twitchy fingers and headaches behind your eyes.

He helped.

He pressed close, contained your jitters between the arm of the couch, the couch cushion behind you, and his embrace. He tangled fingers together to still your own, covered you with a blanket to contain the heat that escaped, rattled on for hours about dogs and licorice red titles, that music store down the street that he wants to splurge some extra cash on next time you both go out. Some coffee shop Cesaro recommended a town over, a new move he wants to try out next time he’s got practice with a ring and some training pads. Went on and on with a knowing gleam in his eye, spoke over the voices that rattled in the back of your mind. Put emotion in, gestured wildly to the flat whispers in your ears that spat frozen words and lifeless fact.

He ran fingers soothingly through your hair, starting small braids in short hair and initiating a favorite past time of yours. A few long, thin braids and the rest in the ponytail of his hair. One thick fishtail down his back or over a shoulder. Three partial braids into a ponytail. Small, complicated braids snuck in under layers of fluff, hidden just for you and him, away from prying eyes. Just curling your fingers in the soft feeling of hair without the texture of oils and wet ringlets that his hair sprung into at the ends.

Sometimes, he held you close and whispered of dreams and imaginary worlds, something for both of you, of your enemies vanquished, of gold and hard-won, deservingly-earned victories and the days you had coming, of light and dark and both of you together in the end.

You take these with you into a shared dream on your tiny little couch or get him coherent enough to stumble to bed. You set things up for the next morning along the way, throwing a blanket over him and tucking it around him like you remember your mother doing for you to wrap it all up, and startling hard when a hand darts out to snatch your wrist up. He blinks blearily at you, whispering your name like he’s tasting it for the first time, a smile teasing at the corners of his mouth like he can’t believe it.

You tell him to rest, to sleep, that you’ll be there to greet him in the morning.

He protests, voice thick, and repeats your name again with a pitiful whine that you, for some reason, find incredibly endearing more than obnoxious like everyone else does.

You stare at him, think of every nightmare and terror that spat him out every night on the road before you had started sleeping with him. You remember every gulping gasp, every rattle of his chest and every wet eyed look when he thought everyone was asleep. Every face pressed into the crook of his arm, every muffled sob and tear-tracked face, every single fitful nap after that, and your heart aches for this man you’d never thought you could love so dearly, so wholly, so completely. 

Such strong affection consumes you right there, in your faithfully aged sweat pants and too-big shirt of string and faded Japanese decals, in your uncombed hair and sleeplessness, in just-Finn. Just-Finn, who likes Legos and art, who likes Hallmark movies and extra spice in his sugar, Just-Finn who misses Japan, who grew up in a small little town with the biggest, most impossible dreams imaginable and made it. Just-Finn, who’s helplessly and hopelessly infatuated with a passionate Architect, who loves you back with just as much fervor. Who loves you back with that same, matched level of intimacy and tenderness.

Such strong affection consumes you on the spot and you have no idea how you’ve gotten there, how you’ve lived such a life on your own. How you’ve made it here and into his home, into his returned devotion, into his life and into your own home, with him. Into his arms as he holds the blanket open for you and whispers your name once more, this time in smug joy, familiar warmth. A certain kind of welcome.

He must read some part of your thoughts on your face because he peppers a few feather-light kisses, shivers when your noses meet in an Eskimo kiss, as your cold toes brush his legs, tangling your limbs together. You’re both like two pieces of a puzzle, the way you each move knowingly into place for ultimate comfort and warmth against the chill that follows you into bed. Your arm under his head, at his shoulder to curl around him, your other over lower chest to cup his back. His own under your arm snugly to gently hold the back of your head, the other under the curve of your side to press firmly at your lower back, pulling you closer to press another kiss like a promise to your forehead.

Even as he begins to snore and snuffle into your hair, as night becomes twilight and then dawn and the world brightens, you stay up and keep watch. You’re proud to admit you fended off each demon that came for your lover in the night. Each one slayed mercilessly under your weary, steadfast gaze, your protective embrace, your pure will. Even with your injury barring you from the ring, you fight for the both of you through the night and into the day.

You recall a time when he had bashfully, under his breath and not meant for your ears, called you his sun. A flush had risen to your cheeks and ears, and you both went about pretending you hadn’t heard. Now, farther into your relationship, ebbed and flowed and aged by time and experience, you cherish it. If you are to be his beloved sun, burning all who stand against you and bringing warm and light, then he must be your sunflower. He certainly acts like one, attention locked to you, chasing you across every room, staring and soaking you in like he’s a man parched. He reminds you of those flowers, you think as he blinks slowly awake with the dawn, those flowers that open to each morning, unfurling and baring itself as the day begins and greets it. So beautiful in their perseverance, their determination, their beauty.

You watch him unfurl, shuffling back and forth to lean away and press his lips once more to your forehead, slow and clumsy. Then to the bridge of your nose, a little more awake, eyelashes a butterfly’s touch ghosting your face. Then to your lips, halfheartedly awake against the light that paints across his face in vertical stripes of gold and hot, molten bronze. You bump noses and his laugh is sandpaper rough, rumbling thickly through his torso and body more than it is escaping into his voice, and you hold him closer to capture each echoing chuckle in his chest.

He remarks quietly, clearing his throat against your neck, that he’s got a song stuck in his head. You choke on a laugh yourself and ask him how he got an ear-worm within the first few minutes of being awake.

He chuckles again and smiles as he catches your eyes again. My heart is always singing when you’re around, babe, he says, smile widening into something toothier and cheesier as a full-bodied laugh explodes from you in surprise. Cheeky little thing, you think, must be all those TV movies last night. 

You smile at him, giggles still bubbling pleasantly in your throat when he presses his forehead to yours, grins something raw and smaller, softer, lets your noses bump again. He studies you intently and you shake your head minutely.

Stop it, you sigh into him. It won’t be long.

No, it’ll be _too_ long, he retorts, fierce. He softens again, though, this time more sorrowfully. It’s always long without you there, he says. There’s a void.

Keep my seat warm while I’m gone, you say simply. I won’t be long. Not much longer now, at least.

His face twists, a flash of teeth. _Always._ You won’t even need me. You bring the heat on your own. It’s almost boring without you kicking those slackers to their feet. I just… miss you.

I’m a phone call away, sweetheart, you remind, tracing patterns into his hip where the bottom of his shirt had ridden up. 

I know, but…

You know where this is going. _I’ll_ go make breakfast while _you_ shower, yeah?

Finn, he speaks, clinging to you almost desperately as you move to escape the cover of the blanket. You pause at the tone and he stares up at you reverently, taking your wrist in a limp hold.

What if something happens?

You search his face for his thoughts, but as usual you are no mind reader and he only has a poker face when he doesn’t need it. You shift his hand from your wrist to your own, pressing a kiss into his knuckles, then his palm, the same to the other hand as he moves it to cup your face. You press one to his fluttering pulse, the crook of his elbow, to his shoulder, his chin and then slowly, carefully to his lips. His breath stutters as you catch his eyes again. You smile, and it puffs again against your skin as you lean away.

You worry so much. Leave the worrying to me. The only thing that’ll happen for now is your path to a title, unless you’re going to settle beef with Trips, yeah?

He blushes but nods. What about you?

I’ll continue getting better, and I’ll meet you there. You smile and break the atmosphere with dotted constellations, marked by fluttering kiss over his face mockingly as he rears away in feigned annoyance.

Get up, get going! You declare, rolling out of bed while he’s distracted, scurrying out of the room faster than his swiping grasp can catch you, calling over your shoulder as you scamper to the kitchen. The faster you get it over with, the fast you get to come home!

Home… he echoes down the hall in wonderment, and then there’s the sound of bare feet on wood as he jogs quickly into the bathroom, throwing the shower on almost immediately. You choke a few minutes later, food almost burning when you hear him trip and knock everything and the bathroom sink off the damn shelf in there. You hear him curse your name, and you can only find enough in you to flip the eggs and cackle louder.

He has to eat fast, obviously struggling to savor it past his eye firmly watching the clock, and it feels like it’s only ten minutes between waking up and seeing him off as he pulls his suitcase behind him sulkily, checking for keys, phone, wallet in his pockets as he goes.

 _Don’t leave,_ something in you crows. _Don’t leave, stay with me, stay with me, please. Stay, stay, stay,_ but you know better than he does that he can’t simply _not go_. Especially with his momentum towards ‘Mania. You can’t go with him, can’t watch his back without location and time differences, can’t keep him safe like you want, can’t do anything. For now. So, for now you’ll keep an eye out, hold down the fort, plan and recover and plan some more. You can wish and long for him all you’d like, wallow it in. Soon, soon you’ll be back in the saddle. But for now, all you can do is wish him well.

 **“Have a good day at work,”** you say, pressing every hope and worry you have into a kiss at the corner of his mouth, smiling because this is the great Seth Rollins, and he’s never needed well-wishes and luck to raise hell.

Seth stares back at you with an unreadable look that crumbles into a loud, full bodied cackle when you lean away. His eyes crinkle happily as he accepts another kiss that becomes two and then four before finally, hesitantly pulling away. You pass him a carry-on duffle bag a little larger than it was when he’d packed it the night before, now laden with your surprise gift. He grins at you, eyes twinkling, an eyebrow raised. 

“Sure thing, babe. You too. Call me later?”

“As soon as you get off,” you promise, “I’ll talk your ear off all the way t’ your match, if you can handle that much of me.”

Seth crows, smiling that toothy grin and bright eyed, wrapping you up in those ever-warm, ever-familiar arms once more. “Oh, I can handle you. Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing, sweetheart.”

 _I’m the one that worries,_ you don’t say as he slips away from you. You let your arms slide against one another, your fingers brushing from his shoulder to his arm, to his elbow and forearm, fingers ghosting past one another as he leaves to his car, taking everything with him.

Your demons relinquish you for by a handful of hours as you enter your home again, finally passing out on the couch. It’s never enough to catch up but enough to keep you running, the few hours of rest. The only lapse in the misery that hangs around your neck like a string noose is the angry vibration and heavy metal of Seth’s ringtone from your phone, bringing it’s warmth and sunflower light back into your chest as it fills the house with its familiar, obnoxious volume.


	7. "I dreamt of you last night."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 7.) “I dreamt about you last night.”
> 
> Days off are a precious thing. Something to be cherished, in their rarity. But full weeks off, with your lover who also wrestles? A priceless gift Mike wouldn’t trade for anything. There’s a world of things to appreciate in those few hours, but he finds the most precious thing is his love at his side.
> 
> The first thing Mike sees when he wakes up is Daniel, sat up in bed next to him, looking towards the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> editing and rereading ur own work whom???  
> anyway id like to dedicate this to beau and poe, my two favorite people and other two third of the miz holy trinity

The first thing Mike sees when he wakes up is Daniel, sat up in bed next to him, looking towards the window. Baggy old t-shirt in faded green, the first two of four mismatched buttons undone, mid-shin cotton PJ pants in grey, fraying at the ends and stitching loose with wear and care. His hair is messy but retains it’s wavy, roguish look. Soft, fluffy, slightly tangled at the ends where it’s actually long enough to _get_ tangled.

Dawn paints his face in horizons of warm light and bold orange, something abstract and unique and only for him, in this single moment to never exist again. His hair is almost aflame in the light, soft strands and waves cast in shimmering bronze and warm golds, the way the brunette catches the dawn’s fire and each strand twinkles and flickers as he moves and twitches in minute movement. His eyes twinkle in a certain light, body relaxed and almost liquid, organic originality in every curve and twist, wrinkles of age and stress smoothed out for now in a way that almost looks unfamiliar of the man he knows so intimately.

There’s the smallest spattering of toothpaste in the corner of his mouth.

He's the most beautiful man Mike has ever seen.

Daniel looks over and down at him, then, and the corners of him crinkle in a way he identifies as carefree, lighthearted, untroubled.  _ Delighted.  _ Content.

Mike offers a smile back and both of them as one reach for the other, clasp hands, intertwining their fingers into one big tangle of rough calluses and sensation. Daniel shuffles down and falls back into bed with an _ oomph _ . After moment he rolls over and faces him, running a thoughtless thumb over the back of his hand, setting goosebumps up his arm and sparking gentle warmth in his chest. His eyes water ever so slightly, but his lover’s thumb is there too, wiping the gentle-rough pad through the path tears track from the corner of his eye even as another rushes down to retrace it.

Daniel takes his other hand and presses a slow, experimental kiss to his middle knuckle, and Mike’s stomach rises and flips with the brush of chapped lips and wiry facial hair, a new shiver rattling up and then down his spine, wracking his whole body with it. The smaller man smiles at him once more, tangles socked feet with his own and presses a handful more lovingly to each knuckle, the back of his hand, the joint of his wrist. His hand is turned gently over and Daniel untangles his own other hand to cup it in both of his.

It’s a soft brush of his lips, feather light to his palm, that really catches his breath in his throat. Daniel’s soft sigh gusts out of him and across his clammy palm, and another wave of goosebumps take him as the other man simply breathes, breathes him, them, in. He gifts a second brush of lips and palm, the ghosting of beard and molten liquid tricking over sensitive skin, humming quietly and gentle as though speaking a wordless secret. The third kiss is full, chaste, simple and pure, and full, rich blue eyes catch his own under his brow, lips still held to his open palm with a kind of unrestrained fragility he wants to drown in. He can catch the distant scent of spearmint and a spicy kind of sweet vanilla.

**“I dreamt of you last night,”** the words trickle out of him quiet but no less heartfelt. How could it not be, with his heart melted and leaking out of him?

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” His face must be blazing with how hot it was, blood rushing to his face, his ears, deafening.

“What was it about?”

“It was you and me, and… we were happy,” he confesses, ducking his head and fighting the instinct to hide away, to dismiss himself. To clam up. To fake it. (Fake it till you make it, right? Right?  _ Right?)  _ (Not anymore.)

Daniel hums into his hand, and he continues slowly, tasting each word carefully on his tongue.

“You and me. It's warm outside. A breeze. There's a wall covered in titles I can spot, and…”

“And?”

Mike can't contain  _ this  _ smile, so wide it threatens to hurt. “We're old. Your hair is grey, and you groan when you stand, but you have these, uh, laugh lines in your face that crease when you see me. When I mention some match we haven't had yet. There's these beautiful forests surrounding the house, we have a house, and this massive acre of land.  _ Covered _ in these flowers of all kinds...

“And this woman pulls up in this car,” he continues, smaller and bashful. “She's beautiful, strong and tall and gorgeous, and you kiss her head when she comes out and she– calls us her fathers and pulls us into a hug. She's got this big fancy title around her waist but we hug her close as possible anyway. We're crying, and we're happy.”

“Just you and me,” Daniel tests slowly. “And… a daughter?”

_ “Yeah,” _ his voice cracks. “Because you're mine and I'm yours. That's how's it's been, how it will be, right?”

Daniel simply stares at him, and his heartbeat echoes in his throat.

Vibration rattles the bedside table suddenly, cutting cleanly through their atmosphere, and his eyes flick towards where he knows it is. 

Probably someone important. He should answer it. Miz can feel his mask creep up, throat tensing, preparing for his voice to shout and snap angrily. Someone needs the Miz, if they’re calling on one of his days off. He reaches– Daniel cups his face, forcing him to focus on him. He's Bryan again, geometric shapes and hard lines, wrinkled with stress and irritation.

“Not yet,” he says. “Not yet.”

Miz gives his head the smallest shake. “But it–”

Bryan hold him tighter, firm, redirecting his straying eyes back. “Not yet. They can’t have you back, not yet.”

“Bryan–”

_ “No,” _ he snaps, pulling him in for a hard kiss, more possessive, punctuated with a second. Tastes like toothpaste, he thinks absentmindedly. A hand relocates to the back of his neck. “You’re  _ mine _ for the week. They promised us that, and they have no  _ right.  _ They can’t have you until Saturday. That was the deal, and they need to stand by it.”

“Bryan,” no, that's not right, too loud, too hard, too  _ Miz. _ “Daniel. I'm yours for as–as long as you'll have me.”

“I want you forever,” he replies, just as fierce before the world slams to a halt, Miz’s breath stuttering out.

The air is thin, breathless, but he cuts out any tension that could develop. Honesty was always the best policy, wasn’t it? “I'm not sure forever could be long enough, for you and me.”

The phone goes silent and with it, Bryan relaxes, softening once more. Miz smoothes out too, those edges receding away until he's just Mike with his Daniel. Nothing to bite and claw for, nothing to prove to anyone, no respect to earn.

Daniel sighs, a crease still stubbornly rooted between his brows, and Mike settles back into bed, pressing a discarded hand to his cheek. When he has the other man's attention, he smiles, shy and quirked. The crease dissolves and he winces apologetically, caressing his thumb in little circles under Mike’s ear, a small, tender spot that releases any lasting tension.

“Do you want to continue? Your dream, I mean,” the other man asks, speech slightly stilted.

Their hands find each other in the middle once more, linking them together. Mike can feel his cheeks begin to ache with that lovestruck smile he can't hide. He opens his arms and his love is immediately in his arms, shuffling down to press his ear to his chest and wraps his arms around him in a tight vice. A chuckle escapes him, and he can feel Daniel’s smile, pressed in his shirt. Small and private, for both of them.

“As I was saying…”


	8. "I saved a piece for you."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 9\. "I saved a piece for you."
> 
> It's an honest to the Gods accident the first few times. Sometimes, he forgets, sometimes accidents happen, changes in schedule and overtime meetings, and it slips his mind. Normally this wouldn’t be any cause for concern, but he can feel his body, his stomach, lurch at the passing thought of just a snack.
> 
> The point was, Finn hadn’t eaten anything today. It wasn't a problem though. Really. He swears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew! nearly a six month hiatus and im suddenly back to this challenge, hello! dont uh, look at this too closely, its not beta'd at all, i whipped this drabble up into something resembling a chapter and decided it was good enough to post bc ive been throwing this this around and rewritten it so many time i just. need to get it out. if you're wondering where chapter eight is, what was supposed to be a drabble became 10k words that i'm currently trying to manhandle back under my control so eventually it'll be added but i figured ill just skip it for now bc its my fic and i can do what i want :3c
> 
> as usual i'll come back and edit this a little later

Finn hasn’t eaten anything today.

Normally this wouldn’t be any cause for concern, but he can feel his body, his _stomach_ , lurch at the passing thought of just a snack. He hadn’t eaten much other than a small breakfast, a bag of chips yesterday, and had to skip dinner the night before that.

Finn distantly felt faint, or would, but he _didn’t_ because he was _busy_ and it’s honestly not an issue. He can wait. He’s gone longer without.

It’s not a problem until he’s leaning against a production box because he feels like Hell itself, like his body’s finally croaking out on him. It's only when he starts feeling far away, detached from his limbs. Like he's ghosting out of his body, edges graying in. 

He doesn’t even realize someone’s talking to him until there are hands on him, pushing him back to sit on the box’s lid, water pressed into his hands as his brain catches up.

“–been sleeping?”

“Been sleepin’ fine,” he hums, sips his water with far-away, numb fingers and heavy eyes. “Jus’ not eating much. Got a little dizzy is all.”

Roman Reigns stares him down with something that can only be called a _stern parent_ expression. There's a little concerned alarm in there too, but he tries very hard not to think about that bit.

“I had a meeting!” Finn protested instead, already feeling a little more awake, solid, in his bones a little more firmly. “It’s been coincidence! Didn’t have change for a vending machine, forgot, wasn’t hungry, I swear.”

“Make an alarm or something, man,” the powerhouse frowned, shuffling his hands through pockets on his jacket, in his gym shorts. Finn would’ve felt rubbed the wrong way by it, but Reigns had a way of worrying over just about everyone he met and this wasn’t the first time Finn had been on the other end of the concerned pout. It came from a genuine place of worry, a big as the man’s heart was. It helped Finn was in singles and

The Big Dog had the most powerful pair of puppy eyes he’d ever encountered on man, not even taking into account a man nearly half a foot taller than him with an up of seventy pounds that might as well be muscle.

Someone called Roman’s name with urgency down the hall but he took Finn’s hand, curling his fingers firmly around a granola bar and holding his grip tight as he stared him down.

"You'd better eat this," he said half- jokingly, grave.

Finn gave a sheepish grin. "I will! Look, I'll eat it now."

He unwrapped it and took a bite as the man began walking backwards, eyebrows raised and finally seeing to smile, losing the heavy worry lines.

"Stop worrying so much! I'll finish the whole thing!" He pointedly took another bite of granola as Roman pointed aggressively from the other end of the hall before he turned away 

"You'd better!"

* * *

Finn did not, in fact, finish the whole thing. 

The world of wrestling was one that never slept, of no mercy. Especially for the wrestlers themselves, both in and out of the ring. Especially for him, who found that putting as many fingers in as many pies as he could was a benefit, despite the exhaustion that followed.

He stood in front of the trash can debating it for awhile. It was a gift, from someone looking after him. He should finish it. He really should. There was still a third of the bar left and he could feel his stomach turn at the thought.

A door creaks open, down the hallway. “Mr. Bálor? They’re ready for you, sir.”

He clenches the rest of it tight in hand before letting it fall into the trash can. He could find something to eat later.

* * *

It was only supposed to be a fast grab-and-go meeting. Sit for a few minutes before grabbing his paperwork and stepping in time for lunch, just in time for catering to open up.

But of course, there are complications and he’s left to clear stuff up, stuff that takes nearly an hour and a half to fix before he’s free to go. So of course, catering for the day has been picked clean.

He didn’t have enough solid brain to even fret. It had to be leaking from his ears. Had to be, he mused as he pillowed his head on his forearms and closed his eyes. He _could_ chance going out for something fast, a small break in his diet, worth it. But again, he was waiting on calls, notifications that might need him urgently. Midday traffic…

His savior announces himself with a kick to his shin.

Dean Ambrose held a plate of fruit slices out to him. “Saw you didn't get any and Seth was looking for seconds anyway. Y’ look starved.”

Finn stared at him. “How didja know?”

“Oh, _psshaw,”_ Dean snorted, waving his free hand. “You fitness fanatics are all th’ same. You’ll all kill for an orange slice an’ shit like that. Saw y’ eyin’ up the fruits earlier.”

He continued to stare and the man shifted his weight, face blank and body relaxed with only the faintest twitch and flick of his fingers to break it up. He let out a breath when Finn finally took a celery stick and dipped it in some peanut butter. “Oh, thank God.” At Finn’s tilt of the head, he rolled his shoulders in something he supposed translated to relief in _Dean_ _Ambrose_ , “I dunno, thought you would kill me or somethin’ for offerin’.”

“Well, I won’t now that you’ve brought me offerings.”

Dean barked out a cackle and slapped a knee. “Well shit! If all I needed to get into the Demon’s favor was apple slices I woulda done this years ago!”

“Well, the way to a man’s heart…”

“Is through his snack foods,” the shaggy haired man nodded along, suddenly solemn in the sort of way he was, taking the seat to Finn’s right as he gestured to it. 

First Roman and now Dean. Two men whose attention could be dangerous. He had the distinct feeling he was being tested. He had the distinct feeling he was being _eyed._ That maybe _–_

“Hey, I need your opinion on something. I’m sure Rollins an’ Reigns are talkin’ out their collective asses, but…”

Maybe a distraction was what he needed.

* * *

“Hey! Finn!” It took him a few seconds to recognize his name, and a few more to wrestle with whether he should actually acknowledge them. He heard a deep inhale and his mind was made up just as Dean clapped a hand over Seth’s open mouth. 

He strides were large as he changed direction across catering. He should be going to his photographer, it had to be close to start time, but taking a minute to talk to some acquaintances couldn’t hurt, right?

“What’s your beef,” he started, putting his hands into the pockets of jacket as he finally stepped up to the trio.

Roman blinked as Seth huffed. “What beef? There’s no beef.”

“You three are as subtle as a brick t’rough a windshield,” he narrowed his eyes, pursing his lips. “You’re up to something. I know it.”

“Can y’ feel it in your bones?” Dean smirked, kicking his legs up as Seth half-heartedly swatted his ankles down.

“I’ll make you three feel it in your bones,” he pointed aggressively, the smallest twitch to his lips despite the suspicious squint to his eyes.

“We swear,” the Architect said, one hand over his heart and lemon water in the other. “We’re up to only good. No shenanigans.”

Roman coughed under his breath and Seth kicked him under the table, both faces untouched by the silent conversation as Finn’s eyes ping-ponged between them. Dean simply smiled. Finn thinned his lips against the suspicion that threatened to make him twitch with nervous energy. 

“You eaten anything today?” Roman spoke up then, nursing a cup of his own with the slightest frown.

“Don’t baby him, Ro,” Dean cajoled before pausing. “You had a bite t’ eat yet, Bálor?” 

Roman rolled his eyes so hard Finn thought he might concuss himself. Seth snorted into his water but nudged his chips over as his stomach audibly, simultaneously cussed and ratted him out. “Not yet, meant to earlier but I keep gettin’ sidetracked. Which reminds me,” he pulled his phone out as it vibrated, wincing at the angry texts that rolled in. “I have a photoshoot I should’ve been at five minutes ago. Catch you boys later. No tomfoolery, y’ hear me?”

They all spared a few pleasantries, Dean baring his teeth as Roman raised an eyebrow at Finn’s narrowed glance, Seth swearing on scouts honor despite Finn being sure Seth Rollins had never been a scout in this life or a past, before he booked it out as fast as he dared. He barely felt three varying gazes following him out as he eyed catering longingly one last time.

* * *

The lights of a hotel had never been so loud. Bright, he meant. Bright, loud, the same thing in two technical languages.

Finn needed a fucking nap. A real sleep. As many hours as he could get. Already, the night’s match was dragging him down, aches pulsing and burning under his skin with more fervor than he was used to and a heavy irritation behind dry eyes, an empty stomach curling on itself. He had been shit out of luck for awhile now, injury, insomnia, business, business, more business that paralleled with a sleeplessness he couldn’t shake with every trick in the book he knew.

But all he can really put together is how bright the lobby lights are and how dark the elevator is.

“Hey! Finn, wait up!”

Finn jolted, nearly dropped his keys in surprise as he turned sharply on a heel to a breathless Seth, jogging towards him to squeeze through closing elevator doors. Adrenaline burns him back to life, stiffens his spine, snaps him back into reality. “Seth! Scared the piss outta me. What d’ya need?”

“We, uh, stole a buncha catering. We were wondering if you wanted to come over in a little bit? Get a bite to eat?” The Architect shuffled in place, rubbing his hands together in something between anticipation and anxiety. Finn noted the _we._ Were they always so unified in how they addressed themselves to others?

But… first thing in the morning, he had the briefest period of rest before getting back to work, he had been meaning to milk every minute of rest he could get his hands on. Staying up later with them would take from his sleep. On the other hand, match adrenaline still searing through his veins, he could feel the creeping symptoms of a sleepless night begin to take hold.

His companion shook his head, taking the silence in stride. “You don’t gotta come over if you need the rest, man. You can hang some other time if tonight is a bad night.”

“No, no,” he gave a weak smile as the doors opened to his floor. “I can come over. I’m not getting much sleep tonight anyways. I hope you don’t mind, I won’t be much for company.”

Seth smiled at him as he stepped out and the doors began to close again.

“All you need to bring is yourself. You’re the only company we want.”

* * *

In the end, he’d switched into comfort clothes without thinking as soon as he’d entered and had been, honestly, too lazy and too achey to try and fit back into jeans and a proper shirt. Then he learned they were only down the hall, the opposite end. So, with keys and other important goods either packed safely in his room or in his pockets, he threw a few fingers through his hair and shuffled down the hall like an arthritis-bound old man. 

Maybe this was a peek into his future. He really, really hoped it wasn’t this creaky into old age.

He stared at the door for a long few seconds, pressure shifting in his chest. What if _–_

Finn knocked. One, two-three-four, five. 

The door knocked back. Six-seven.

Dean answered a moment later, with the lock-chain pulled taut between them, something thick and pink smeared across his cheek. Genuine surprise flashed across his face before quickly trading in for just-as-real joy. “Hey, y’ actually came!”

Finn had enough energy for indignation. “Of course I came, I said I would. Should I leave?”

“Oh, fuck, sorry, that was rude,” he said, shifting the door and unlocking before opening it properly.

He barely caught _that’s two fifty in the baggie, Ambrose,_ before Seth shoulder-checked the brawler out of the way with a beaming smile, an arm behind his back. “You came!”

“‘Course. You asked so politely and my mum didn’t raise me without manners.” Finn couldn’t help his smile. “The offer of food helped, though.”

“You gonna make him sit out in the hall all night, Rollins?” Roman snarked from the room, looking to be rummaging through a few bags with a fork tucked into the corner of his mouth. Seth’s nose crinkles but smooths back as he shifted a plate from behind his back, holding it out with a satisfied smirk. “Tada! **I saved a piece for you!”**

“Hey, no, no, no, _we_ **saved a piece for you,”** Dean hooked the door with his foot and threw it open all the way with more force than necessary, a full cake carefully balanced in both arms. “Don't believe him for a second, it was _my–”_

 _“–Our_ idea,” Roman scoffed, catching the door before it could slam into the wall. “All three of us came up with it, don't listen to these idiots. You up for some food? We got more than cake if you don't want any.”

“Man won't eat a donut, you think he wants a cake?”

Finn put a hand to his chest in mock offense, lips twitching. “Hey! I was busy! I'll take the whole thing if you're going to be rude about it!”

“Not anymore you won't,” Dean smiled.

Seth barely choked out a _Dean, you motherf–_ before the brawler ran his tongue across the side of it, taking a large bite of it as he did. Roman yelped, barely managing to yank the cake firmly from his brother's hands before Seth tackled him with an angry shout. He kicked them over with a foot and properly held the door open with his hip, exasperated.

“That's five in the swear bag, Seth!" Roman hollered, giving him a sheepish grin as balancing the cake in one hand and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear with the other. "Come in, would you?”

“Sure, thanks.”

There was an energy to the air, he surmised as he took the room in. Their rooms were identical, if not for the crooked TV and the way the two beds were crammed together to make one. He felt like he was entering someone’s home, lived in, domestic and dynamic with history that wasn’t his. Was only for them, somehow, all in a hotel room they probably had never used before tonight. He shouldn’t be here, some part of him tugged, this was too personal. This was them, bared down to the bones. 

This wasn’t for him to see. He should leave them to it. He should take his cake and leave. _He should–_

“Hey,” a large, warm hand landed gentle on his shoulder. Roman, cakeless, “If you don’t feel comfortable–"

“No! No, it’s fine,” he smiled tiredly, a little more meek than he meant to be. “I just, uh, don’t wanna make things awkward.”

He became suddenly overcome with the stark realization that the three of them were dressed decently, jeans of varying types with a tank top and t-shirts respectively, and he was bleary eyed, messy haired, in a too large pair of sweatpants and hoodie combo, with some old baggy socks.

“Roman made us dress up,” Dean blurted from the floor, peeking his head up over the edge of the bed. “He thought we’d scare you off– _ow,_ you fuckin' asshole, get your bony elbow outta my ribs–”

“Get your ribs outta my elbow!” Seth snapped, and Dean barely managed a yelp before he disappeared behind the bed again in the sounds of a scrap.

Roman gave a world weary sigh, but his fond grin more than made up for it. “Sorry, ‘bout them. I would have them sorted out, but if I get involved it gets messy… and that’s three fifty in the bag, Dean!"

“You thought you’d scare me off?” Finn took a bite of his cake as it was passed to him, keeping his mouth occupied as the Big Dog gestured for him to sit around. He found a place to settle at the edge of the bed adjacent to a table with a seat pulled out his (acquaintance? friend?) host quickly occupied.

Roman looked sheepish again, taking up a slice of pizza left on the table to fidget with. “Ahh… a little? We can be a lot, and we really like you. Want to impress you and stuff.”

… Well, Finn didn’t know what to say to that. They were really that fond of him? He felt a little life return to him, the foreign flattery fluttering happily in his chest. “I like you guys too, you’re just a bit intimidating. Plus,” Finn smiled, shrugging as he leaned back on a hand. “Well, color me impressed. Now I know you’re all softies.”

Roman narrowed his eyes. “... Nobody would believe you.”

“Ahh,” he sighed, holding a hand to the light and studying his nails. “The sweet Finn, heart of gold, honest and trustworthy?”

“You little _demon–”_

There was a thud across the room that had a pained shout erupt suddenly enough to startle the both of them and shake the bedside table that house a glass lamp. Roman grit his teeth as he leapt to steady the table and Finn instantly understood where all the disappointed parent jokes originated from.

“Dean! Seth! We have a guest! Get off the floor and quit roughhousin’ or I’ll kick both your asses myself and it’ll be a two man movie night!”

Seth was the first one up, bouncing to his feet and immediately sparing Finn an apologetic bordering-ashamed frown as he made for the pizza to the sound of dramatic whining from the floor.

“Movie night?”

Seth rolled his eyes as he passed, retrieving his own pizza and quickly darting over to claim the other chair with something akin to sibling rivalry. “Dean figured a movie would put you right to sleep or something.”

Finn made a face and the mentioned man snorted, ducking Roman’s pepperoni slice as it innocently, accidentally, was slung in his direction.

“It’s ‘cause you don’t know how to rest,” Dean quipped, baring teeth as he ripped into his pizza.

“Says the man who only–”

“No fighting at the dinner table. Sit down, shut up, eat your pizza.” Roman intervened, flicking a square of ham at one and slinging another slice of pepperoni at the other as they both recoiled, Seth groaning in disgust and Dean cackling as the ‘roni plastered to his defensive forearm. “I can’t believe _I’m_ the voice of reason today. No fighting while we have a _guest._ ”

“It’s not fighting, it’s bickering!”

“I _will_ fight you,” Seth hissed, eyes narrowed, mouth twitching.

On cue, all three turned to Finn and he immediately shoved a forkful of icing in his mouth, grinning to their whining complaints as his stomach finally settled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roman's phone wallpaper is a picture of Dean, Seth, and Finn. They're all tangled together, a mess of limbs and blankets on a double bed as dawnlight washes in. It's one of the only photos that stands the test of time; Roman can't bear to delete or part with it, even getting it printed and laminated to keep tucked into his vest while he wrestles.


End file.
